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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27198836">Jack and The Baby</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuppenny/pseuds/tuppenny'>tuppenny</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Babies, Brotherly Love, Fluff, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 10:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27198836</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuppenny/pseuds/tuppenny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the summer of 1891, Jack steals a baby. No, wait-- let him explain. It'll make sense once you hear his side of the story, he swears.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Jack and The Baby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Summer 1891</strong>
</p><p>If you asked Jack, he’d be sure to tell you it all started off innocently enough; it was a Monday morning, the headline stank, and Jack was shouting out complete and total lies as loudly as he could, trying to carve out a slice of attention amidst the noise of all the sirens and streetcars and shopkeepers and housewives in New York City.</p><p>Oh, and the baby. What’s that? Jack was trying to out-yell a baby? No, no, no. That’s not it at all. It wasn’t just <em>a</em> baby, you see. No sir. Not this baby. No way. This wasn’t <em>a </em>baby. This was <em>the </em>baby.</p><p>It’s important to get that straight, Jack would tell you. The baby is key, he’d say. He’d want you to know that. He’d meet your eyes and stare you down until he was sure you knew. Remember this bit, okay? This baby isn’t just any baby—this is <em>the </em>baby. The most important baby of Jack’s young life. The baby who ruined his selling spot.</p><p>And this wasn’t just <em>any</em> selling spot, mind you; this was his <em>best</em> selling spot—the one where he could shift thirty papes even with a lousy headline and sheets of rain soaking him and his merchandise halfway through to Sunday. You know how hard it is to find a selling spot like that? Sure, Manhattan is big, but so is the gaggle of newsboys that spreads out across the borough, and most of ‘em have longer legs and beat you to the busiest corners. Either that or they’ll beat you up for claiming a spot you ain’t earned yet.</p><p>Is it fair? Nah, but nothing is, is it? And of course you’ve gotta remember that you’re still a kid, so you don’t eat all that much, and the older fellas always tell you that your high voice and your child-round cheeks mean that you sell more papes in less time than the big kids do, anyway, so maybe it’s fair after all. Maybe. So you move on from the busiest corners and find a spot with half of the traffic but double the women, and everyone knows they’re the softest touches—they ain’t news-mad like the suit-wearing businessmen, no, but pity sells just as well as news most days (and some days it sells better)—so you figure you’ve made out pretty well finding this spot right here. A good spot. Your new selling spot. And, eventually, your <em>best</em> selling spot.</p><p>So fine, there’s a baby, you say. A loud baby, I’m guessing, but still just a baby. How bad could it be?</p><p>Bad, says Jack. Real bad. And he’d know—he was only nine or ten, sure, but he’d been a newsie for years by then—or at least for months that felt like years. He couldn’t quite remember. Why keep track of time when every day is the same? What matters is that he’d been a newsie long enough to know the game, which he did. Jack knew the newsie game well, yessiree. He’d sold in all sorts of weather, in all sorts of neighborhoods, made up all sorts of lies and yelled them at full volume. Little kids have more volume than you’d think, he’d tell you; pint-sized lungs don’t mean a pint-sized sound, you know. Not in Jack’s case, anyway. And certainly not in the baby’s.</p><p>Have you ever tried to focus when a baby’s screamin’ bloody murder in the tenement apartment next door? What about when it’s sittin’ in a tired mother’s lap on the front stoop within spitting distance of your very best selling spot, hmm?</p><p>Exactly, Jack says. It ain’t easy. And if you think it is, then how’s about you go try selling papers for three hours straight when a baby’s shrieking its head off for all of ‘em.</p><p>Three hours? Yeah. I told you, don’t underestimate the set of lungs on a little kid. Jack did, and look where it got him.</p><p>It got him a baby.</p><p>Now hang on a minute, you say. Back up a few steps there. How’d a nine-year-old kid with no parents of his own end up with a baby? How’d Jack go from being sore over losing his best selling spot to sitting on the floor in the lodging house kitchen, a blue-eyed baby in his arms? And, more importantly, is this baby <em>a</em> baby? Or is this <em>the</em> baby?</p><p>Those are good questions. I’d even go so far as to say that they were very good questions, though I wouldn’t puff up with pride over that if I were you. They’re good questions, yeah, but are you gonna pipe down so’s a man can answer them? Land’s sakes, you’ve gotta simmer down for more than half a second if you wanna get some answers. Honestly, Jack laments, shaking his head. Some people ain’t got no patience. A story’s gotta be told right, don’t it? Take its time to unfold? Reel you in before seasoning you with lemon juice?</p><p>(You’re a fish in this metaphor, see? Jack goes fishing sometimes, hikes out to the East River and dangles some string in the water. It’s a nice way to pass the time, but he’s never caught anything. That’s okay, though. He’s not sure the fish in that scummy water aren’t poisonous anyway. It would explain a lot of things if they were. Spot Conlon’s sour face, for one. It’s hard to smile when your guts are tied in knots from eating manky fish.)</p><p>Bottom line is that a story’s gotta be told right. Otherwise what’s the point in tellin’ it ta start with? The way you say things is just as important as the things you say—any newsie worth his salt knows that. So shut your gob and settle in, alright? Jack doesn’t appreciate the interruptions. They disrupt the flow. Break the spell. He’s got half a mind to start again from the beginning, you know, and it’d serve you right if—</p><p>Okay, fine. We won’t start over. Not completely, anyway. We’ll pick back up with the screaming baby and the selling spot and the worst Monday morning headline known to man, but you better behave from now on. You don’t wanna make a habit of derailing a man’s train of thought, you know? You might get crushed in the steel wreckage of a boxcar or two, an’ then ain’t nobody happy. You got that? Good.</p><p>So. Back to the baby.</p><p>It was crying when Jack got there, but he didn’t notice it at first. New York City is loud, and what’s more, it’s proud of that volume. You ask someone ta quiet down, they’ll respond by raising their voice and tellin’ you that if ya can’t take the noise, better clear on out an’ move to another city. Jack’d do that if he could, of course, and he’d been saving up for it for years—months? Again, not sure—but for now he was a New Yorker, and he spent most of his day adding to the noise, not listening to it.</p><p>It didn’t take him long to notice that something was off that particular Monday, though; try as he might, no one seemed interested in stopping for a paper. The half-truthful headlines he spun grew progressively wilder and more fantastical as the hours slipped by, but no matter how much death and violence and titillation he crammed into each shout, no one paid him any mind. His shoulders sagged at lunchtime as he counted the pennies in his pocket. Enough for a glass of water at Jacobi’s, yes, but not for a seltzer. And definitely not for a meal.</p><p>The evening edition was a bust, too, and he slouched back to the lodging house at the end of the day, throat hoarse and spirits low. Had he noticed the baby by then? Nah, not really. Cryin’ babies is hard to ignore, sure, but remember—New York City. Also, we’re talkin’ about a newsboy who was so unused to quiet that the first time he went to a Protestant Church, he about ran outta the pew during the time of silent confession. No, I’m not pullin’ your leg—them Protestants do a silent confession! I swear. And who ever heard of silence in New York City? Not Jack, that was for sure.</p><p>Day two, though—by day two, Jack noticed the baby. People still weren’t stopping, and the hunger in his belly made his head hurt, and the weight of the papers in his bag made his shoulder hurt, and the cryin’ baby on the stoop made his ears hurt, an—wait a second. How long had that baby been cryin’, anyway? A long time, right? He thought back to yesterday and narrowed his eyes, suddenly realizing that this kid had been squalling for two days straight now with no sign of stopping. Babies cried a lot, he knew that from his time at the orphanage, but even there they hadn’t just… stayed in one spot, cryin’ without a break.</p><p>Not that Jack was a baby expert—he knew an awful lot about the world, sure, but, no matter what Race told ya, Jack was in fact humble enough to admit that even <em>he</em> didn’t know everything—, but surely you oughta at least move a baby around some, let it cry in new places? Walks and fresh air were good for little kids, right? Made ‘em stop cryin’? Jack stared the mother down, hoping she’d take the hint to pack up an’ let the kid bawl somewhere else. She didn’t, of course, or (more likely) she saw him glaring and simply didn’t care. Jack sighed.</p><p>He spent the rest of the morning making up headlines about infants who met untimely deaths and mothers who were hauled inta court for disturbin’ the peace, and although it didn’t make the kid stop crying or prompt the mother to move, it did make Jack feel better.</p><p>By day three, Jack realized his problem wasn’t that no one was buying papers <em>and </em>there was a screamin’ baby—his problem was that no one was buying papers <em>because</em> there was a screamin’ baby. He ground his teeth in frustration. This kid was gonna be the death of him. He’d lost two days’ wages <em>and</em> had to eat the cost of his stacks of unsold papers, his stomach was growling louder than an animal at the circus, and his head was about ready to crack under the pressure of this baby’s ear-splitting screams. Enough was enough. He’d had it.</p><p>Eyes sparking and jaw clenched, he marched over to the stoop, ready to give that mother a piece of his mind. But, just as he opened his mouth, he looked down at the baby. And frowned. And instead of unleashing an impassioned, roof-raising speech about how babies shouldn’t stay in one spot and mothers shouldn’t make everyone else in the world listen to their screamin’ child all the day long, Jack said, “Ain’t that baby eaten anythin’ lately?”</p><p>“No,” the mother said, her voice dull. “An’ he ain’t gonna, neither.”</p><p>Jack looked up at the mother, who’d looked like a fearsome adult when he was glarin’ at her from across the way, and saw that she wasn’t so old after all. About the same age as Tiny, the current leader of the newsies of Lower Manhattan. Old enough to have a kid, sure, but prob’ly not old enough to have any idea of how to take care of it. Not unless she’d had lots of little siblings, which most gals around here did, but Jack guessed this gal hadn’t, ‘cause if she had, there was no way she’d be sittin’ here lettin’ this kid scream its head off and not feed it anything.</p><p>“Babies need food,” Jack informed her. “You gotta feed that kid.”</p><p>The woman rolled her eyes and turned her head away from Jack.</p><p>“Ain’t you gonna feed it?” Jack wasn’t gonna let this go. He was awful hungry himself today, an’ sure, it was this baby’s fault, but if the baby was half as hungry as it looked, then Jack didn’t blame it for screamin’. He’d scream, too, if his cheeks were all sunken-in like that.</p><p>The mother scoffed. “Get outta here,” she said, still not looking at Jack.</p><p>Jack’s anger hardened into resolve. His eyes flicked between the mother and the baby, mother and the baby, then up and down the block. No bulls in sight, not too much traffic on the sidewalks—he’d have about as straight a shot as he ever would. This might be his best chance. And once he’d decided that, he didn’t waste a second more—in one smooth motion, he darted forward, grabbed the baby, and hightailed it outta there, ducking and weaving around the knots of pedestrians, taking this baby away from its awful, awful mother.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Jack took a roundabout way back to the lodging house, not wanting anyone to tail him and steal the baby. He was drenched in sweat by the time he made it into the kitchen—the baby might not have eaten in a while, but it seemed to grow heavier the longer Jack held it. At least it had stopped screaming.</p><p>“You liked all that runnin’, huh?” Jack grinned, lying the baby down on the kitchen floor. He peered down at his new ward, admiring the baby’s big blue eyes. “You’re welcome, kiddo. You’re safe now, ya know. I’m gonna get you some food, an’ then I’m gonna teach ya how ta be a first-rate newsie. You won’t never go hungry again.” Jack’s stomach growled, and he bit his lip. “Well, not too hungry, anyway,” he said, turning to the kitchen cabinets to see if there was anything there that one of the other newsies had mistakenly left behind. Or maybe Kloppman had brought a little food in this morning—he did that sometimes, when he had time and money to spare.</p><p>Jack was in luck—there was a loaf of bread in the breadbox and some butter on the counter. He cut off a slice of each and then paused, glancing down at the baby. “You got any teeth to chew this?” The baby was quiet (of course he was. Jack had already quit his selling spot, an’ there weren’t any customers here for the kid ta drive away). Jack sighed and crouched down in front of the kid, sticking his finger in its mouth to see if it had teeth.</p><p>“Ow!” He jerked backwards, finger bleeding. “Here, you ungrateful wretch, eat the bread already!” He shoved the heel of the loaf at the baby and stalked off to rinse his finger, clenching it tightly below the knuckle.</p><p>“Uh, Jack?”</p><p>Jack whirled around, then relaxed. “Tiny!” He beamed. He adored the older boy—hero-worshipped him, in fact, though you’d never hear him say so.</p><p>Tiny stepped into the room, smelling of dirt and tobacco. “You okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Jack laughed, waving off Tiny’s concern. “The baby bit me, is all.”</p><p>Tiny tilted his head. “The what now?”</p><p>“The baby,” Jack said, pointing at the kid, who was lying happily on the floor, gnawing at the crust of bread.</p><p>Tiny’s eyes bugged out. “What the—” He swung back to face Jack. “How’d <em>that </em>get in here?”</p><p>“I brought it,” Jack ventured. Tiny’s unexpected reaction had sparked a streak of unease. Surely Tiny would see reason once Jack explained? “I—he ruined my best sellin’ spot. He’s been screamin’ bloody murder for days, Tiny. No one wants ta stop long enough ta buy a pape with this bugger yelling his head off like the world’s about to end.”</p><p>Tiny slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Lemme get this straight. You were mad you couldn’t sell any papes, so you <em>stole a baby?!” </em></p><p>Jack rocked backwards in dismay, blindsided by the force of Tiny’s anger. “What?! No! No, that weren’t it at all—he’s been cryin’ f’r days ‘cause he’s <em>hungry, </em>Tiny—lookit him, look how skinny he is! He needs somethin’ ta eat! I didn’t just waltz in an’ take him—his mama don’t know how ta look after him! He ain’t safe with her!”</p><p>Tiny frowned, and Jack redoubled his efforts. “I tried talkin’ to his mama first, Tiny, I <em>did</em>—I marched right over there an’ told her she needed ta feed him, but, but, but she didn’t listen ta me!” He clenched his fists at his sides and worked to steady his voice. He had to make Tiny understand. He <em>had</em> to. “She said she wasn’t gonna give him nothin’ ta eat, Tiny. <em>She weren’t gonna feed him</em>.”</p><p>Jack swallowed hard, his voice going deep with rage as he worked to hold his tears at bay. “An’ she didn’t believe me when I said he was hungry. That she hadta feed him.” He rolled his shoulders and dashed his hand angrily across his face, wiping away the start of a runny nose. “She just <em>laughed.” </em></p><p>Jack shuddered, his eyes flicking to the loaf of bread on the counter. “She don’t know nothin’ at all about babies, Tiny.” Jack’s voice was steely now, even as he betrayed his emotions by pressing a hand to his stomach in unconscious sympathy for the child. “Is it any wonder this fella here won’t stop cryin’? He ain’t eaten in days.” Jack widened his stance and set his shoulders, readying himself for a fight. “I can’t take him back. I <em>won’t.”</em></p><p>Tiny sighed. “Jack—”</p><p>Jack ran over to Tiny and grabbed onto the teenager’s hands, trying to tow him over to the baby. If he wouldn’t listen, maybe he would <em>see.</em> “I couldn’t just leave him there, Tiny—lookit 'im! Really look, okay? Don’t just act like you’s lookin’—give him a good, long, gen-you-wine look-see. Can’tcha see how bad off he is? How thin? He needs someone ta look after him, Tiny! He ain’t bein’ taken care of! Babies need food, an’ she <em>weren’t givin’ him any!”</em></p><p>Tiny squatted down next to the baby and looked over at Jack. “He ain’t yours, though, Jackie.”</p><p>Jack crossed his arms and gave Tiny his most mulish stare. “If his mama don’t know she’s gotta feed him, she shouldn’t have him in the first place.”</p><p>Tiny reached up to squeeze Jack’s shoulder. “I think she knows she’s gotta feed him, shortstop.”</p><p>Jack kept giving Tiny the stink eye. “She said she ain’t fed him in days an’ that she ain’t gonna give him nothin’ anytime soon, neither. She’s a bad mama, Tiny! I’d do a better job!”</p><p>Tiny smiled and motioned for Jack to sit down. Jack did, still full of righteous fury. Tiny picked the baby up and put him into Jack’s arms, watching with tenderness and amusement as Jack cradled the child close, stroked its forehead, and helped it eat, glaring daggers at Tiny all the while.</p><p>“You gotta give him back, kiddo,” Tiny said eventually, easing down to sit across from Jack and the baby.</p><p>“No,” Jack snapped. “His mama don’t feed him.”</p><p>Tiny raised an eyebrow. “And you will?”</p><p>“Yeah!” Jack paused, daring his stomach to growl. Mercifully, it didn’t. “I’ll feed him good, Tiny. Raise him up ta be a newsie, just like you done with me.”</p><p>“I didn’t get holda you until you were about eight, Jackie,” Tiny reminded him. “You were mostly grown by then. This kid’s a whole nother story.”</p><p>Jack shrugged.</p><p>“Jack.” Tiny reached out a hand to tilt Jack’s chin up. “You gotta take him home.”</p><p>Jack wrenched his head away and shook it violently. “No. No, I don’t. I <em>won’t!</em> An’… an’ you can’t make me!” He looked up at Tiny with triumph in his eyes. “You don’t know where the baby came from, so you can’t make me bring him back.”</p><p>Tiny rubbed his temples. “Kid. You already told me you got him at your best sellin’ spot. I know where that is. You gotta take him back.”</p><p>Jack’s face fell. “But…” He looked down at the baby, who’d finished eating the bread and was now blinking slowly, fighting sleep. “But he was sad there, Tiny,” he whispered, hating Tiny for making him say it. “Don’t make me take him back.”</p><p>“He’s got a mama, Jack,” Tiny said, his voice low. “He b’longs with her.”</p><p>“I’d do a good job with him,” Jack insisted, raising his eyes to meet his friend’s. “A better job than <em>she</em> would. I’d take good care of him, I swear.”</p><p>Tiny gave a half-smile that only made him look sadder. “I know.”</p><p>“I’d be a good dad,” Jack insisted, feeling his eyes begin to prickle. “I’d feed him an’ hug him an’ tell him I was proud of him—I’d be a good dad ta him, Tiny, I would!”</p><p>Tiny scooted forward and pulled Jack close, letting Jack bury his face in Tiny’s broad chest and stifle his sobs against the worn cotton fabric. “You’d be the best dad, Jack,” he soothed, wrapping a large, scarred hand around the back of Jack’s head and rubbing gently up and down, up and down. “You’d do so good. An’ someday you will. Just not with this baby. This baby ain’t yours. You’s gotta wait for your own, okay? You can’t take somebody else’s. You’s gotta wait for yours.”</p><p>Jack clung to the baby with one hand and pounded against Tiny’s thigh with the other, crying into Tiny’s shirt. “Why’s I gotta wait, huh? He needs me <em>now</em>, Tiny, this baby needs me, an’ I—I’m here, I’m here f’r him <em>right now</em>, an’ I c’n keep him safe an’ keep him fed an’—” Jack’s stomach did growl then, and his tears intensified. The baby woke then, too, and soon Tiny’s ears were full of both Jack’s anguish and the baby’s wails.</p><p>Remember, just ‘cause kids are small don’t mean they’s quiet. These two certainly weren’t. An’ I guarantee you one thing—if poor old Tiny had tried to sell any papes in the lodging house kitchen that afternoon, he wouldn’t have made a single penny.</p><p>Jack cried and the baby cried and Tiny just about cried as Tiny hugged and shushed and rocked the two younger children both back and forth, back and forth. Eventually Jack’s tears slowed to hiccups, then to sniffles, then to silence. He gave the baby a thumb to suck on, and the baby stilled, too.</p><p>“You hafta give the baby back, slugger,” Tiny said again, looking Jack right in the eyes. “You’ll have your own baby ta love someday, I promise, but it ain’t time f’r that yet. This one belongs to his mama.” Tiny brushed his grimy thumbs across Jack’s cheeks, clearing away the tear tracks. “C’mon now, Jackie. As long as this kid’s got a mama, he should be with her.” Jack whimpered, and Tiny smoothed Jack’s hair back, giving him a soft smile. “Doncha think?”</p><p>Jack sat for a while, staring at the baby, watching it blink and sigh and breathe. After several long minutes, his shoulders sagged. “Yeah,” he said, hating himself for giving in. “Kids oughta be with their mamas f'r as long as they can be.” He kept his eyes fixed on the baby, feeling his heart grow even as it sank down deep into his stomach. “I hate ta bring him back somewhere he’s gonna be hungry, though.” Jack shook his head, thinking of the pain in his own stomach and imagining a similar ache in the baby’s. “I just… it don’t seem right.”</p><p>Tiny winked. “I’s got a plan f’r that, kiddo,” he said, straightening up and reaching out a hand to pull Jack to his feet. “We’s gonna bring that baby back in style.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Jack imagined he was an avenging angel (did the Protestants have those? He wasn’t sure. Maybe the baby’s mama was a Catholic like him, though, an’ if she was, then she’d recognize an avenging angel, alright). Or, no, he was a gunslinging cowboy, headed to the shootout at the OK Corral. No, wait, he was a—</p><p>“You ready, kiddo?” Tiny placed a steadying hand on Jack’s shoulder.</p><p>Jack lurched back to reality and pulled the baby closer to his chest.</p><p>Miss Medda laid a hand on his other shoulder and patted gently. “It’s gonna be okay, honey.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Jack straightened his spine. “Yeah, I’s ready.”</p><p>Tiny readjusted the burlap sack he’d swung over his back, Miss Medda smoothed her skirts, and Jack took a deep breath. Then they rounded the corner, a trio of untouchable warriors, headed for the dirty tenement stoop next to Jack’s best selling spot. We's a row of sharpshooting cowboys, Jack thought. No, wait; a brigade of Union soldiers. Oh, no, wait, we's—</p><p>
  <em>“You!” </em>
</p><p>Jack froze as the baby’s formerly-listless mother rocketed off the front steps of her building and hurtled towards him.</p><p>“You took my baby!” She wrenched the baby from Jack’s arms and cradled her son close, frantically kissing him and checking him over to make sure he was okay. Jack was mildly offended by that, but he supposed he couldn’t blame her for not knowing that Jack was one of the good ones. One of the <em>better</em> good ones, if you asked him, but of course she wasn’t gonna. She thought he was a baby-stealer, after all.</p><p>“And he brought the baby back,” Tiny said firmly. “With food.” He thrust the bag at the mother, who grasped it automatically.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“He was hungry,” Jack said, stubbornness and anger clear in every line of his body. “I took him away ta give him some food, an’ then I brought him back with more food. So’s you can actually <em>feed</em> him. He gets hungry, ya know.”</p><p>The mother narrowed her eyes.</p><p>“You's gotta feed him,” Jack insisted, crossing his arms.</p><p>The mother glared. “Ya think I don’t know that?”</p><p>“Well ya didn’t seem ta this mornin’! Or yesterday, or—”</p><p>“What he means to say,” Miss Medda cut in smoothly, “Is that he was concerned about your welfare and that of your son, so he took an… unorthodox approach to getting your boy a square meal, and then he rounded up some groceries for you.”</p><p>The woman looked skeptically at Miss Medda. “He stole my baby ta give him some food?”</p><p>Medda nodded.</p><p>“You don't believe me, huh? Lookit the facts in fronta your face. He ain’t cryin’ no more, is he?” Jack demanded.</p><p>“Maybe ‘cause he’s too scared to,” the woman shot back. “He ain’t used ta no one but me, an’ then a total stranger runs up, snatches him right outta my lovin’ arms, an’ disappears! He's prob'ly terrified!”</p><p>Jack rolled his eyes. “Lovin’ arms? Gimme a break. You don't know what love even—”</p><p>Tiny stepped on Jack’s foot. “It didn’t take him long ta realize he shoulda gone about it another way, Miss, but—”</p><p>“Mrs.,” The woman snapped.</p><p>“My apologies,” Tiny said, giving a half-bow. “I ain’t used ta interactin’ with the fairer sex on the reg’lar, let alone a lady as pretty as you.”</p><p>The woman squinted and opened her mouth, but Miss Medda jumped in sooner. “But the point is that he did bring the baby back—”</p><p>The woman’s eyes flashed. “Only after he scared me half to death!”</p><p>Jack bristled. “Ain’t like you tried too hard ta get him back, now, is it?”</p><p>The woman actually bared her teeth at Jack and growled. Medda sucked in a breath of surprise, but Jack simply snarled back. No one scared Jack Kelly. No one got to make him feel small. He balled up his fists and raised his arms into a fighting stance, fully ready to wrestle her into letting him have the baby once and for all, but Tiny put a stop to that by elbowing him right in the ribs.</p><p>Tiny cleared his throat. “An’ there’s one more thing.”</p><p>“Oh yeah? Like an apology?” The woman sat the baby on her hip and arched an eyebrow at Jack.</p><p>“Two things,” Tiny amended.</p><p>Jack frowned and refused to talk. </p><p>“Two things,” Tiny insisted, nudging Jack.</p><p>“Ugh, <em>fine</em>,” Jack groused. He rolled his shoulders and spat the words out as quickly as he could. “I’m-sorry-f’r-takin’-the-baby-even-though-I-ain’t-really-that-sorry-‘cause-I-fed-him-an’-you-didn’t, an’..." He sucked in a deep breath to finish the rest of his pronouncement in another rapid-fire statement. "Also-Miss-Medda-here-would-like-ta-offer-ya-a-job-so’s-ya-can-earn-some-money-an'-make-sure-you-an’-the-baby-have-food-ev’ry-day.”</p><p>The woman’s face went white. “You’s kiddin’.”</p><p>“No, I ain’t,” Jack said, furious that she was accusing him of lying. He lied all the time, sure, but he wasn’t lying now, was he? No sir, he was not, an’ this lady had no right to imply otherwise. “An’ Miss Medda ain’t, either. She don’t <em>never</em> lie.”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know if I’d say never,” Miss Medda said with a smile, placing her hand on Jack's back to settle him down. “But it is true that I never lie about employment opportunities. Can you sew? Clean? Run errands?”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am.” The eagerness in the woman’s voice melted years of worry from her face, softening her into the teenager she was. “An’ I’m a real good cook, too.”</p><p>“Well that’s just perfect,” Miss Medda said, holding her hand out for the woman to shake. “I run a little revue down on the Bowery—the reputable end, mind—and me and my girls need a little help with the costume upkeep. There’d be some light cleaning involved, too, and fetching things from suppliers.”</p><p>The woman bit her lip when Medda said the word ‘Bowery,’ but she relaxed again when she heard the explanation of the job. “I c’n do all that,” she said confidently. “When do I start?”</p><p>“Tomorrow noon, if you’re able,” Medda said. “Just ask anyone on the Bowery how to get to Miss Medda's. They’ll steer you in the right direction.”</p><p>The baby’s mother nodded and bounced her child gently on her hip. “I’ll be there. I’ll be there at ten.”</p><p>Medda laughed. “Noon’s fine.”</p><p>The baby giggled in response to Medda, and the mother smiled, too, gazing down at her son.</p><p>She didn’t look half so mean when she looked at her boy like that, Jack thought. He turned to go, knowing he’d need to find a new selling spot now, even though the baby wouldn’t be crying anymore.</p><p>“Hey!” The baby’s mother reached out and grabbed Jack’s shoulder.</p><p>He flinched and shrugged her off. “What?”</p><p>She laughed at his surly glare. “Thank you. You went about this all wrong, but thank you. Jamie an’ I—we’s real grateful.”</p><p>“Jamie?” Jack asked, swallowing a lump in his throat.</p><p>“James, really,” she nodded, “But yeah. You wanna say goodbye?”</p><p>Jack’s breath caught. “Can I?”</p><p>“As long as ya don’t run off with him again,” she said, only half-joking. “He likes you, ya know.”</p><p>“I likes him, too,” Jack mumbled, reaching out to smooth down a wayward tuft of the baby’s—<em>Jamie’s</em>—soft hair. He gave the woman an uncertain look, then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Jamie’s forehead. “Bye, then, baby,” he whispered. The baby cooed and stretched out a small hand. Jack blanched, whirled around, and ran off down the street.</p><p>“He’s one for the quick exit, ain’t he,” The woman said, amused.</p><p>Tiny heaved a sigh and scratched the back of his neck. “He’s a runner, alright. But his heart’s in the right place.”</p><p>The woman nodded. “I sees that now.”</p><p>“Thanks for not callin’ the cops on him,” Tiny said. “That woulda—he’d’ve—”</p><p>The woman stopped him with a sharp hand gesture. “No. He’s a kid. He scared me somethin’ awful, but he’s just a kid. I’d never do that to him.” She turned to Miss Medda and bobbed her head. “I gotta go feed Jamie now, but I’ll see ya tomorrow, Miss Medda. Right at noon. Thank you.”</p><p>“My pleasure, dear,” Medda replied. She and Tiny stood silently as they watched the woman haul the bag of groceries, her baby, and herself back into the listing tenement building. Medda took in the uninspired cut of the woman's dress and hoped the girl's sewing was better than her imagination. She fingered the miniscule stitches in the lace collar of her custom-made blouse and gave an internal shrug. Even if the girl wasn't up to the task this very instant, she could always learn. And as long as the girl made a good faith effort, Medda would find her a place. Yes, yes, she knew that her payroll was tight already—she might not know much, but Lord knew she knew <em>that</em>—but if she couldn't help a woman and baby as tired and worn as that, then what was the point of running her own business, anyway?</p><p>“Thanks, Miss Medda,” Tiny said. “You saved the day. I’s got my hands full with Jackie, that’s f’r sure, an’ without you I dunno what I’d’ve done.”</p><p>“I’d do anything for that boy, Tom, you know that,” Medda said, pulling Tiny in for a brief hug. “And between the two of us, we’ll make sure he turns out alright.”</p><p>Tiny huffed a laugh. “He sure don’t make it easy on us, though, huh?”</p><p>“Not even a little." She winked. "But he’s worth every bit of trouble he sucks us into.”</p><p>“That he is.” Tiny quirked an exasperated smile. “Jack Kelly, troublemaker extraordinaire.” They looked out in the direction Jack had fled, creating a quiet moment in the midst of all the city noise.</p><p>“If we can just keep an eye on him until he’s grown as big his dreams,” Medda mused, “Then look out, world! Nobody will be able to stop him.”</p><p>Tiny snorted. “I don’t think he’ll ever be as tall as a house, Miss Medda.”</p><p>“Maybe not,” she said, looping her arm through Tiny’s and turning them in the direction of the Bowery. “But we are sure gonna help him try.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tah dah, I am still alive and kicking. Just not writing. 2020, man! Zero inspiration. Z e r o. And then here's me, resurfacing briefly in order to post yet another non-slash story into a fandom that craves slash. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I had fun writing it, at least!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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